Gorsky concealed his chagrin. “Every important actor must have his understudy.”
“You mean there was always a substitute, waiting to—”
“But of course. You could have met with an accident, or needed a serious operation. Such things happen.”
Yes, thought Nealey as he stared back at Gorsky, accidents do happen. Thank God that Parracini is in charge. If he weren’t here to restrain this man... And once again Nealey felt the same cold fear that had seized him in Washington.
“Get some clothes on,” Gorsky told him. “You’ll drive me into Menton, leave me at the market. And don’t take long to dress. Two minutes.” He had switched off the lights and opened the shutters, and was now making a quick check of the terrace and gardens. He was at the office door, his hat in his hand, his coat over his arm, waiting impatiently, by the time Nealey had pulled on trousers, shirt, and sweater, and slipped bare feet into loafers. Less than two minutes, thought Nealey, but Gorsky had no comment. His eyes and ears were intent on the silent house as he hurried downstairs, led the way through the hall, ghostly in the first light of morning.
He did not speak, even when they reached the garage safely—no one in the garden, no one at any window—and entered the car. Only as they left Shandon’s gates did Gorsky say, “Hurry! Drive as fast as you can.” He threw his coat and hat into the back seat. “Get rid of them,” was his final command. Then, slumping low, head kept well down, eyes on his watch, a frown on his face, Gorsky seemed to forget Nealey completely.
Nealey made one last show of independent judgment. He halted the Citroën a couple of blocks from the market. “Too many trucks pulling in, too many farmers opening their stalls,” he said briskly. “I’m not going to be caught in a traffic jam. You get out here.”
Gorsky had no other choice: to keep the car standing while he argued would only draw attention to them. He got out.
Nealey had a parting word. “You shouldn’t be seen with me, anyway. Or have you forgotten I’m under surveillance?” He smiled and drove on, cutting away from the shore, heading back into town. Surveillance, he thought with contempt, just one of Gorsky’s lies to keep me in line. No one has been following me. I’d have sensed it, and, to prove he was right, Nealey spent a few extra minutes weaving in and out of streets and avenues, keeping his eye on the rear-view mirror. As he expected, no one was tailing him.
There’s only one real danger as far as I’m concerned, and that is Chuck Kelso’s letter. How long will extradition take? If I’m faced with that, before Feliks arrives in Aix-en-Provence to—what would be Gorsky’s word? Oh yes—to escort me safely to that cabin cruiser (another convenient lie to keep me trusting Gorsky?), then what do I do? What do I do? On sudden impulse, he swung away from the centre of the town, entered the tunnel that led to Garavan Bay. The Hotel Alexandre was along there somewhere.
How easy, he thought, it would be to walk into the Alexandre, ask for Lawton, and make a pretty little speech: I am not the American citizen, Heinrich Nealey by name, born in Brooklyn, 1941. I am Simas Poska, born in Vilnius, 1940. As a trained agent of the KGB, I adopted the identity of Heinrich Nealey when I “escaped” from the German Democratic Republic in 1963. Since August 1965 I have fulfilled my duties as a Soviet intelligence officer in Washington. In January of this year I came to Menton to continue these duties. I have no connection with the death of Charles Kelso. Murder is not my bag, my dear Mr. Lawton. And so I defect, if you’ll guarantee me this and that, etc., etc.
Yes, how easy. But defection is not my bag either. In spite of Comrade Colonel Boris Yevgenovich Gorsky, affectionately called Oleg by his friends—all two of them if that isn’t an exaggeration—I am still a capable, intelligent and loyal officer of the KGB.
Nealey reached the Alexandre, making a quick U-turn on to the west-bound avenue, so that he could pass its door. He slowed down. So easy, he thought again, and laughed. Why not throw Gorsky’s hat and coat, unwanted relics of last night, right into the hotel garden? Smiling broadly, he put on speed and headed back towards the tunnel underneath the Old Town.
* * *
As arranged, Gorsky had met Feliks, waiting in a dilapidated van, near the flower-stalls outside of the market. “The harbour,” he told Feliks. “I want to see if the Monique has arrived.”
“She’s here.” Feliks wasn’t speaking French this morning. That had been part of his disguise for the Kelso assignment last night, like the black coveralls and ski-mask. His thin face was gaunt, and his voice depressed. The capture of Gómez was a real setback. Together they had made a good team. For almost eight years. Who would be his partner on today’s job? Some new arrival from the Monique, no doubt, who would want his own way or need everything explained twice. Better to work alone, Feliks thought. Yes, a real setback.
“Then I want to verify her exact position.” It had taken a generous payment and some rapid arrangements to get a fishing-boat to leave well before dawn, and let the Monique slip into its mooring-place.
“I’ll take the tunnel,” said Feliks. “It’s the quickest route.”
As they emerged on to the waterfront, Gorsky scanned each pedestrian, each car. “That black Citroën—just ahead of us,” he said quickly. “Nealey. What’s he doing over here?” The wide avenue that edged Garavan Bay would never lead to Cap Martin.
“Follow him?”
“Yes.”
Well ahead of them Nealey made his U-turn, slowed down as he approached the Alexandre.
Feliks was roused from his state of gloom. “What is he doing?” He too made the turn, drew to the side of the westbound avenue as if he were going to make a delivery. His face was now as sharp and eager as a ferret’s.
In bitter disgust, Gorsky said, “The man who knows when he is under surveillance. Just look at him, Feliks. He hasn’t even noticed us.”
That would be difficult, thought Feliks, hidden as we are by the high sides of this closed van marked alimentations: eggs and butter, that’s us. Still, Nealey’s mind wasn’t on his proper business. “He’s stopping!” But as he spoke, the black Citroën picked up speed, began travelling at last in the right direction for Cap Martin.
“Let him go,” said Gorsky. Yes, he was thinking, Nealey always runs. In Central Park with Mischa, or last night at the Kelso place—he runs. He saves himself. Always. And now he is about to defect. I know the signs. I can smell them. “Did you manage to salvage our communications equipment from the cottage?” he asked suddenly, and gestured towards the interior of the van. “Guns, ammunition?”
“Everything. All packed in cartons, ready to be set up or stored on the boat. Also, I brought some changes of clothes for us both.”
Gorsky nodded his approval. “The Monique,” he directed Feliks. Then, back to thinking about Nealey, he lapsed into silence.
25
The Alexandre, one of the new hotels facing Garavan Bay, was constructed in Siamese-twin style: an apartment house for long-lease tenants had been built directly on to its side, seemingly independent but conveniently linked by their jointly-shared restaurant. For anyone who wanted to approach the hotel discreetly, it was fairly simple to stay unobserved, provided, of course, that he had previously scouted the area and discovered its possibilities.
Tony Lawton had done just that, as soon as he had checked in yesterday morning. Future insurance. It paid off now. Once Bernard had deposited him a good hundred yards away from the Alexandre and the KGB agent on guard duty (a minor character, this must be, Tony reflected, but still an annoyance), he walked briskly to the apartment house and nipped into its hall. There were other early strollers, too, out for a pre-breakfast constitutional or the morning newspaper. Gorsky’s man, glued to the hotel entrance, paid little attention.
From the apartment-house hall—one elderly lady, with hair curlers wrapped up like a pound of sausages, being pulled by her small white poodle towards the sidewalk—Tony entered the restaurant. (No patrons: croissants and coffee, standard breakfast, only needed a tray and room-serv
ice.) Avoiding the kitchen door, he made his way between the rows of tables and entered the small lobby of the Alexandre. Empty, at seven in the morning, except for the night clerk still on duty and half asleep. Tony didn’t approach the desk or the self-service elevator. He took the stairs, nicely carpeted, silent, and only three flights to his floor. His room key, behind a mezzotint on the wall near his door, was still in place, jammed between the picture frame and its cord.
Tony’s room was modern—small, everything built-in as on shipboard, with a stretch of sliding windows opening on to a balcony and a view of the bay. He resisted both, flopped down on one of the narrow beds, “Bliss,” he said, feeling his spine stretch, his back-muscles ease. But not yet, he reminded himself, not yet.
First, a call to Bill’s two bright boys. They must be, to have chosen their identification routine. No humdrum weather talk from them. He was to ask, “Is Jeff around?” And the answer would come back, “No, he’s out looking for Mutt.” Yes, thought Tony, I rather like their style. Their names were Saul and Walt—Canadian, British, American? Bill hadn’t said: only that there would be no language hang-ups, and thank heaven for that. Tony’s instructions would be quickly understood. And then, to make his message authentic, he was to end with Bill’s customary sign-off: “No more muffins for tea—make mine jelly doughnuts.” Happy idiots, all three of them; but their touch of light relief was just what he needed to break up this morning’s strain and tension. Tony’s mind relaxed along with his body. He stopped worrying about the difficulties and dangers of making an open call to two unknown agents. He rose from the bed and dialled their number.
“A return visit to last night’s scene,” he began, once the formalities of Mutt and Jeff were over. “But this time come as VIPs and pay us a visit. Be our guests. For arrival, manner should be dignified, dress restrained. Perhaps a dark raincoat to cover more normal clothes? The kind of thing that is worn around that area? Can do? A briefcase would look good, too. Ten o’clock prompt. Sea is calm. Breeze is slight. Understood?”
“Understood,” said Saul—or Walt. “Anything to add?”
Tony gave them Bill’s jelly doughnut routine. It was received with a brief and business-like “Okay.”
So that was settled. Next a check with the Aurora itself. Vincent, the man to contact there, was very much on duty. Identification went briskly by a series of numbers. Tony’s message was equally crisp: Georges arriving at ten, with party of three, all four with identity cards; two men, both known to Georges, entering marina ten twenty-five, boarding ten twenty-eight, sailing ten thirty.
“D’accord,” said Vincent. “Will transmit sailing-time to escort. “Bonne chance.”
And that too was settled, thought Tony as he laid aside his transceiver. Any gaps left? There always were, of course, and then you had to improvise quickly and hope for the best. Too bad that he couldn’t be down at the marina to make sure Georges and his party had reached it, or to see Bill and Parracini actually board the Aurora, watch them all sail safely out to sea. It would have been a satisfying moment. But impossible, with the time-schedule necessary to keep Parracini from thinking up some demanding questions. Such as: “Why are we leaving the house so early? We don’t arrive at the harbour until ten thirty; we board the Sea Breeze at ten thirty-five. Isn’t that the arrangement?” Bill had difficulties enough without those queries being raised, intent as he was on getting Parracini into the car before the Aurora was even mentioned. Otherwise Parracini would head indoors for the bathroom, nice excuse, to make contact with Gorsky and pass the word that Sea Breeze was off and Aurora was on, Aurora, Aurora, find the Aurora. And Gorsky would... Yes, the original time of departure from the house on Garavan Hill had to be kept. And that, Tony told himself, is the reason why you won’t wave goodbye to the Aurora. Uncle can’t be in two places at once.
He ordered the usual café complet, began laying out the necessary change of clothes, shaved and showered. Breakfast still hadn’t arrived. The hell with it, he thought, and got into bed. He set the alarm for nine o’clock. That would give him an hour and a half for sleep: enough to set him up for the rest of this day. He needed it.
But fifteen minutes later the waiter unlocked the door, brought the breakfast-tray shoulder-high, triumphant delivery, into the room. Tony came awake as the lock turned. “Scusi!” said the young Italian, his good-morning smile transfixed as a naked man leapt out of bed with hands raised karate-style. “Scusi, signore!” The tray, almost dropped, was laid hastily on the nearest table.
“Just a nightmare, un incubo,” said Tony, draping a sheet around him. Two francs for a tip, and the boy’s nerves were partly restored. At least he managed to get to the door and close it carefully.
The coffee had spilled over the paper tray-cloth. Half a cup was still pourable, croissant and brioche only fit to be eaten with a spoon. He turned away from the unappetising mess, drank the coffee in two gulps, and dropped once more into bed. Just as he stretched back, preparing to drift off, his transceiver on the table beside his pillow gave its insistent buzz. He reached for it, switched on the connection. It was Emil reporting from the Sea Breeze. “Something new was added during the early hours. Must have been between four and five, when I was having some shut-eye. There’s a cabin cruiser, the Monique, not far from us. She has taken the place of a fishing-boat—”
“Your friends—they cleared out to let her—” Tony began in alarm. Good God, he was thinking, what kind of beer-guzzling pals did Emil welcome aboard last night?
“No, no, that was one of the other fishing-boats. My friends are still here, working away. Two of them dropped in for breakfast. I couldn’t call you until they left. All is quiet now. But—” Emil hesitated, “but the Monique seemed too interested in us. You’d better have a look at her. When do I expect you?”
“Now. Give me twenty minutes.”
“No need to rush. As I said, all is quiet.”
“Twenty minutes.” Tony signed off, grim-faced. The Monique—Gorsky’s? Could be. A cabin cruiser... And right in the harbour, not waiting out in the bay until the Sea Breeze sailed. Which meant the Monique could watch all the moves that Tony had planned, instead of relying on observers stationed at the dock, sending out radio reports on the exact number of men arriving at what precise time. Gorsky, if he was on board the Monique, would certainly have his binoculars trained on the Sea Breeze, and, unlike his observers, even if he had never seen Bill, he knew the difference between Parracini and Bernard. But how, Tony kept wondering as he called for a taxi to arrive in ten minutes at the apartment house next door, how the bloody hell did Gorsky manage to get his damned cabin cruiser into an anchorage that was already jammed full? Money, influence, or sheer luck?
He dressed rapidly: blue jeans, rough navy sweater, an old denim windbreaker that could reverse into a tweed Eisenhower jacket, rubber-soled shoes, a knitted cap pulled down to cover his hair except for the wild fringe he had combed over his brow, eyeglasses with plain glass lenses, a temporary moustache. In the mirror the effect was good—a workaday sailor, with hands in pockets, hunched shoulders, and a slight roll to his walk.
From the false bottom of his bag he selected two hairpieces, one dark brown, one blond, found a dark moustache, and shoved them into the tweed lining’s pockets. Transceiver, Gauloise cigarettes, a small box of coarse matches, and he was ready to leave. Again, his room-key was hidden behind the mezzotint; again, he used the staircase, avoided the hotel lobby, and made his way through the dining-room. He reached the front entrance of the apartment-house as the cab drew up. He was inside before the startled driver could even get out of his seat to open the door.
“The Petit Port, and double the fare if we reach it in five minutes,” Tony said, bending down to tie his shoelace as they passed the Alexandre’s entrance. Gorsky still had a man there, leaning against his car’s fender. Either Gorsky had agents to spare, and Tony doubted that, or he had become much too interested in Lawton.
He stopped the taxi not far from the h
arbour’s steps. The double fare was paid, and a good tip added. “Meet me here at ten fifteen,” he said. “Can you be sure of that? It will be a short journey, but I’ll pay well.” The driver, an old sailor type himself, looked at the money already in his hand. Ten fifteen, he agreed. Without fail.
Now, thought Tony as he altered his walk to suit his appearance, we’ll have a look at the opposition.
* * *
“Did you see her?” asked Emil. He had recovered from his attack of astonishment: he hadn’t expected Tony to arrive so quickly; he hadn’t even recognised him, mixing with the small groups of sailing enthusiasts and fishermen that gathered for the usual talk or early-morning stroll around the harbour area. It wasn’t until a seaman detached himself from three other nautical types as they passed the Sea Breeze that Emil actually identified the man as Tony.
“Couldn’t miss her.” The Monique was a sleek and classy lady, with good lines and a capable look. She was smaller than Tony had expected, which accounted for the ease with which she had entered the harbour. She lay just four doors away, as a landsman might put it, cheek by jowl with the fishing vessel under repair. (Emil’s friends were now having trouble with one of the sails.) Tony had had to pass her to reach the Sea Breeze: a bad moment when—like the three sailors to whom he had loosely attached himself on their walk along the wharf—he paused to admire the smooth and shining cabin cruiser. “She is being loaded,” Tony said, as he took a mug of coffee from Emil.
“That only started about twenty minutes ago—just after I called you—with the tall fellow carrying down cartons on to the dock. He got one of the crew to stand guard over them while he went back for more. Didn’t want anyone else to touch them, can you beat that?” Emil’s good-natured face, round and blunt-featured, was tired and drawn this morning, but his usual cheerful humour had reasserted itself with Tony’s arrival. He grinned and shook his head. “Don’t know which is funnier—that man carrying those cartons, one at a time, all by himself; or the way you look.” He noticed the mug of coffee was already emptied. “Like some breakfast?”
Agent in Place Page 32
